when you're trying to remember something and it's on the tip of your tongue but you just can't get it out no matter how hard you think about it

You spend three minutes describing the actor to your friend—tall guy, was in that one movie, you know, the thing—while your brain does laps around the answer like a dog that lost its keys. Then you give up, change the subject, and it hits you eight hours later while you're brushing your teeth, which is when you're least equipped to do anything with that information except resent yourself.
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when you're trying to remember something and it's right on the tip of your tongue but you just can't get it out no matter how hard you think about it

You spend forty-five minutes describing a movie to your friend—the guy, the thing, the place where he does the stuff—while your brain screams the title at a frequency only dogs can hear. Finally it comes to you at 2 a.m. while you're brushing your teeth. You immediately forget it again.

when you can't remember a word that's on the tip of your tongue and it drives you crazy all day

You spend eight hours chasing a word through your brain like it's hiding behind furniture. By noon you've described it to three coworkers using only hand gestures and the phrase "you know, the thing." At 11 PM, alone in your kitchen, it finally surfaces: "pellucid." You immediately forget why you needed it.

When you're trying to remember something and it's right on the tip of your tongue but you just can't quite get it out.

You're lying in bed at 3 a.m. convinced you've finally remembered the name of that actor from that one movie, so you lie there for twenty minutes constructing the entire scene around him—his face, his voice, what he wore—building a perfect statue out of nothing. At 6 a.m. it hits you: Tom Hanks. You've spent a third of your night excavating Tom Hanks.